“So like, what are you?” I can’t stand this.

“Are you sure you aren’t Hispanic?” Please don’t start speaking Spanish. 

People have always questioned my race. It is something that I had to get used to over the years. I was always the one question mark in the class. People could not figure out my story by looking at me, I couldn’t be put into a box. The undertone of my skin giving ideas that I wasn’t as black as the next. I wasn’t the ghetto black girl, I couldn’t speak Spanish, and I always seemed to resemble another lightskin girl who was said to look “exactly” like me.

“No, actually, um my mom is Trinidadian and my dad is black.”

My mom came to America when she was fourteen years old with dreams almost as big as the plane she arrived on. She believed that America was the land where anything could happen. The streets paved with gold bricks, its people draped in fur and diamonds, and the weather always bright and sunny. To my mother’s surprise JFK Airport in New York City was the first to slaughter her expectations. The streets were a dull black color, with potholes and mysterious liquid on them; the people dressed as an everyday American person would; to make matters worse, there was a terrible thunderstorm that day.

Though her vision of America was not correct, my mother remained optimistic. She walked through the hallway confidently, owning her Caribbean heritage, even when the white kids in her school made her feel like she should paint her body red, white, and blue. She stayed in Alabama to get her doctorate, even when the rednecks launched racist remarks at her, telling her to go back to where she came from. 

As the years progressed, my mother grew more and more American. She began to assimilate to American culture. She lost her accent and began to forget the traditional recipes for meals that her mother cooked for her. As a child, I only took part in my Trinidadian side during Thanksgiving. Uncle Dimple would bring over roti from a West Indian restaurant on Jamaica Avenue. That was it. I knew nothing else about Trinidadian culture. But when I was asked “What are you?” and replied with “Trinidadian” suddenly, I was no longer the question mark. Most people began asking me what soca artists did I listen to or what type of oxtail or roti did I like. When I did not have an answer, the person’s face shifted into disappointment. 

“Wow, you’re so white”

This statement, as often as it has been said, began to tear through my skin. What does that mean? How did I become white? Why do I act the way I do? The questions swirled through my consciousness repeatedly. So, not only was I an outcast from my Trinidadian side, but I was also outcasted from my race entirely. I did not know what to do or how to conform to whatever society wanted me to be. 

I began to change myself. I watched tutorials on Youtube of “How to Wine In 3 Easy Steps.” My playlist changed from Childish Gambino and J Cole to Machel Montano and Kes. I even tried to plan a trip to go to Trinidad with my family. I began to resent my mother for all of this. Why couldn’t she be more like my aunts who took their children on trips back to Trinidad and made them roti and oxtail? Why was she so white? 

It was not until I entered highschool when I began to stop and look at things from another perspective. Yes, I am Trinidadian and black. I was not raised with the sound of calypso nor the smell of chicken curry throughout my house. My mother was but, she seemed to have left all that behind her. If I call her “white” or judge her for not being Trinidadian enough that makes me just as bad as the person calling me those things. To this day, I still do not “feel” Trinidadian. I do not wear the red, white, and black flag across my heart. But, I realize now that the tone of my skin, the looseness of my curls, and the lack of soca knowledge is only part of who I am. We are not defined by a single story by others. And although I may not be what society wants me to be, I am me. 

Drawing Paragraph:

When most people look at me, they do not know what to think. Was I black? Hispanic? Mixed? Their questions and inquisitions swirling around me, suffocating me. When I reveal my ethnicity, unzipping my skin, revealing the red, white, and black flag, they begin to question me more. Why do I not “act” Trinidadian? Why did I not know a lot of soca artists or eat curry and roti regularly? Their questions and judgements leave me tired, I do not know the reasons of why I act the way I do; but, I know that I have accepted who I am and what is under my skin.